Remember Me
by TeenWriterGirl
Summary: When tragedy strikes at its most fearsome, Arthur is taken on a journey that will lead to faith, sacrifice, and love in its truest form.
1. Prologue

**Remember Me**

Prologue

It's nearly been two years now. The day should be long blocked from my memory, erased somewhere in the crevices of time. I will it to go away, with all the force left within me. For weeks, my mind will have a reprieve, only to be jerked to a horrifying state of panic in the middle hours of the night, with only my sweat and tears left to comfort me. The rest of the night results in insomnia, with me pacing the furiously cold hardwood floors of my study, pulling back the drapes before dawn and just staring at the stars, praying that the night will end. Even in my state of being half-awake, the fear and panic never leave me. It's as if I'm stuck in a glass box for my memories to play out before me, and there's nothing I can do but crawl into the shelter of my own body and wait for it all to end. That's the only damned thing I can do anywhere. Wait. Pray. Hope. Stare. What good does it do? Damn it, it does nothing. I'm a fool for wanting to see into the future, but I'm even more of a fool for wanting to rewrite the past. All the dabbling I've done in magic in my years has no use to me. I'm trapped in a nightmare, and the only thing I can do every day is relive it...

It was a stereotypical January morning. By this, it twas inferred that the sun was out, there was a light sprinkling of snow on the ground, and the temperature was fairly close to freezing. For Arthur Kirkland, it was a strikingly colder contrast to the milder winters he received at his home, but there was nothing less to be expected for a World Summit being held in Moscow. Thankful for the heavier blazer he had remembered to pack, he sauntered to the hotel listed in his itinerary, a hotel marked with characters he failed to recognise. To his relief, the lobby clerk was fluent in many languages, including his own English, and he was able to collect his room keys accordingly before boarding the steel elevator. It hummed restlessly on its journey to eighth floor, nearly to a point where Arthur feared it might be malfunctioning. His worries subsided at the classic ding and click of the door rolling open, and he stepped through with anticipation, eager to sleep off the jet lag in his room.

He already had the key ready, but to his surprise, the door opened at his touch. His eyebrows furrowed, but a quick glance at the plate on the door confirmed that he had reached his correct rooming location.

"What the bloody hell..." he murmured as he pushed the ajar door open further. His jaw continued to drop more as he viewed the instantaneous messy state _his _so-called room was in. Drawers were open, clothes were scattered, and the one large king bed that sat in the centre of the room was cluttered with multiple leather suitcases, covered with tacky stickers of numerous airports and travel shops. Arthur could feel his face flushing as he concluded who exactly was in his sleeping quarters. It was none other than the infuriatingly stubborn, ridiculously immature, but nonetheless inconceivably attractive ambassador—the only one, in fact, that would ever take his own invitation to room with a gentleman such as himself—Alfred F. Jones.

In the front of Arthur's mind, there were no words. Every straight, proper, and civilized bone in his body was pushing him to take rash action and force the intruder to pack up and leave his room. However, several other inklings were wanting Alfred to stay, for reasons that would not be proper to disclose on paper. Reasons that nonetheless indicated that Arthur Kirkland indeed was not the dry, boring, stuffed sock that everyone claimed he was. These inklings did have their immediate effects on Arthur, but they soon wore off as he solidly marched further into the room. To no surprise, a Russian version of _Jershey Shore _was on, with English subtitles to boot. If this weren't enough, a radio lay on the side table, no doubt blasting all of America's latest hits. With a quick smack of his fist, both the music and television were turned off. He took careful steps to position himself directly outside the bathroom, where Alfred currently was. At the sound of his media being turned off, Alfred immediately opened the door, but broke into a grin when he saw who was there.

"Yo Artie, I was wondering when you'd get here!"

"_I TOLD YOU NEVER TO CALL ME THAT!"_

"Glad to hear your flight went smoothly. I was just about to call and ask where you were," Alfred chuckled, as he leaned against the bathroom door frame. A white polo shirt was casually tossed on, unbuttoned, half tucked into a pair of light blue jeans. His sandy-blonde hair was a little unkempt, but his blue eyes were still the same, welcoming him in, even though they were miles into the cold depths of Russia.

"About that... _why aren't you in your own room?" _Arthur's temper once again erupted, and he could feel his cheeks flushing with angry warmth. Alfred, however, appeared unfazed.

"Yeah, sorry man. The receptionist said there was a problem with the rooming on the computer, so for some reason my rooming plan was deleted. So, with a little of this," he paused to slick back his hair and break out into a smile-overload, "I cajoled her into letting me stay here with you. No big deal, right? I figured it could bring some... quality time..." He smiled once more, in an attempt to choose the words carefully. Arthur kept his fists clenched, and stiffly strode over to the other side of the bed, forcefully shoving Alfred's luggage when necessary. Using the few drawers that were left, he carefully tucked his freshly pressed shirts, slacks, and blazers into the dresser, and leaned the rest of his luggage against the wall.

"I suppose we can make it work," he grumbled, loosening the hunter green tie that had been nearly strangling him all day. Alfred didn't have much time to respond, for a knock on the door interrupted their conversation. Arthur waved Alfred away as he went to answer the door. A quick look in the peephole revealed a slender maid adorned in the typical black and white maid dress. Without any qualms, Arthur opened the door, facing his visitor curiously.

"I'm very sorry to disturb you," she said breathlessly, "but there is a parcel for you out front. It's very important, so it is wished for you to come down immediately." With these words, she turned on one heel and left, hurrying down the hall and turning, going to god-knows-where. With puzzlement, Arthur closed the door, and reached for his blazer once more. He glanced in the large mirror on the wall, and prepared to exit, when Alfred popped around from the bathroom again.

"What was that about?" he asked sceptically, his shirt now half-buttoned.

"It was nothing. There is a parcel I must fetch in the lobby. I shan't be long," he replied as he reached for the doorknob. In mere seconds, Alfred was next to him. Arthur tried unsuccessfully to smother his annoyance.

"It is important, so I'd rather go _alone. _Besides, what are you, a hound dog? I haven't seen you like this in well..." His voice trailed off, not wanting to dredge up his past. Their past. Alfred shrugged good-naturedly.

"I've been here for two hours, and the meeting won't start for at least four more. I'm coming with you. Hell, I'm getting cabin fever." He grabbed his leather jacket, with the apparent knowledge that their journey to the lobby would prove to be a cold one. Arthur scowled, but relented.

"After you, then." he stated in as much politeness he could muster. Alfred took the invitation and bounded out into the hall, his winter boots barely tucked into his feet. The elevator ride proved to be rather uneventful, with mostly just Alfred's excited chatter about Russia, and conference, and typical small talk that no one wants to say but does anyway. By the time ground level met them, Arthur was relieved to be off the lift. As he glanced around the lobby for the maid, or any servant, he found none. Even the receptionist was gone, with a "Be back in ten minutes" plaque placed in front of the sign in sheet.

"It must be outside, like she said..." Arthur thought aloud, as he stepped through the sliding doors onto the sidewalk, with Alfred in tow. To his further surprise, no one was there to greet them either. A van slowly pulled out from the parking lot, leaving the premises, but no other parked vehicles were moving. It was then Arthur glanced at Alfred's face. It was tight with fear, but even more so with determination... almost anger. In the fiercest voice Arthur ever heard him utter, Alfred spoke.

"Arthur, go inside _right now," _Alfred commanded. Arthur glared in confusion at Alfred.

"I will not obey you simply because you say so—"

But Alfred was not taking no for an answer. With the enormous strength Alfred was known to possess, he hurled Arthur into the swivel door, where he painfully slid into the lobby. In his body's numb shock, he could only watch as the sidewalk exploded into tiny pieces, and an enormous flame overtook the awning and plants nearby. By the time the calamity ended, Alfred lay limp on the charred ground.


	2. Chapter One

Arthur had determined that the gray wallpaper was beginning to turn green. By the third hour he had been sitting on a lone bench in the nearest hospital, he had nothing better to do but observe the peeling stucco that provided about as much comfort as the concrete floors below him. The morning was stuck in his head on a blur. The callous touch of Alfred's hand on torso, propelling him back into the hotel was particularly significant, for the bruises of slamming into the swivel door appeared to be engrained into his back.

Pain was still splitting up his spine whenever he changed position, particularly when he made a move to stand and pace. The nurses and doctors who had taken Alfred knew very little English, leaving him not only clueless, but thoroughly confused. Their stone faces and anxious whispers seemed to be on repeat in his mind, the gurney rattling down a narrow corridor as if it were on a death march. Arthur's face hardened even more at the thought.

Beyond any concerns about the so-called "parcel" that had been delivered for him, Arthur was frantic with worry about the condition of Alfred. He had felt the heat of the explosion. Enough battle experience had taught him that those were high grade explosives that had been implanted in the sidewalk. When used in war, they were not meant to inflict injury. They were meant to inflict death.

One nurse had managed to tell him that he would be informed when he was able to visit Alfred, but that it would be prudent for him to go home, since they were unaware of his current condition and the treatment that would be necessary, let alone the time all of it would take. Arthur had nodded at the time, but remained planted on the nearest bench to the ER. All calls and texts he received he either refused or deleted. There was no need for anyone to know what was going on... besides, he was almost positive that all of the ambassadors in the building had heard the explosion. Francis in particular had been sending him calls, as well as the host nation himself. If they insisted on contacting him, that was their choice. If they wanted a conversation, they would have to travel to the god-forsaken hospital themselves.

By the time a nurse came out in her gray uniform to tell him that his presence was allowed, he figured that it was already night time. The skylight in the centre intersection of the halls had turned a stormy gray, leaving only off-white, sterile lights to guide the way. As the nurse's high heels clicked on the ground, the artificiality began to sneak in. Panic rose in Arthur's blood as he realized that Alfred at this very moment could be hooked up to a machine as living as the light bulbs on the wall. The pain was overwhelming. But nothing would stop him from thrusting the hospital room door open.

His eyes had to adjust to the dim lighting. Doctors with light blue masks hovered about the room. One was plastered near what appeared to be a heart monitor, which rang out a tempo lower than his own national anthem. He could barely recognize Alfred behind the pale sheets, his ashen body hooked up to more tubes than he could bear to count. To the side, a nurse carefully measured out bottles of god-knew-what to pour in, to hopefully speed up his recovery. But what recovery was there to be had?

"It's not looking so good, I'm afraid," a voice spoke quietly from behind him. Arthur whirled around to see who appeared to be the head doctor. The man slid silently past him, gazing downwards at Alfred.

"What the hell is—"Arthur's eyes narrowed in anger, and he could feel his hands helplessly clutched into fists. The doctor grimly paused and made eye contact with the medicinal nurse before replying.

"Four of his ribs are fractured, and one of them punctured his left lung. His collarbone is shattered, and one of his vertebrae is cracked. As of now, he doesn't have feeling in his feet, and he hasn't been able to speak or acknowledge what anyone has said to him." The doctor sighed, pushing a gloved hand through his short locks.

"What are you saying?" Arthur asked in a near whisper, as he fought the glaze that was threatening to completely cover his eyes.

"His future is very uncertain, Mr. Kirkland. At this point, he could go either way. To be perfectly honest, it's a miracle he survived the accident he did, if it was as lethal as I've imagined it to be. " The doctor stated matter-of-factly, before approaching the door to the room. "I'm terribly sorry. We'll give you some space for the time being." With a gentle click, the door closed, and the man was gone.

Hurrying over to the bed, Arthur clutched Alfred's hand tightly, not caring if a nurse should chastise him. Alfred's crystalline eyes were hardened, staring at what appeared to be nothing.

_Godammit Alfred, _Arthur thought in agony, _what were you trying to warn me about?_


End file.
